With his quaint and curious humour set the town in such a roar,
With my shilling I stood rapping—only very gently tapping—
For the man in charge was napping—at the money-taker’s door.
It was Mr. Buckstone’s playhouse, where I linger’d at the door;
Paid half-price and nothing more.
Most distinctly I remember, it was just about September—
Though it might have been in August, or it might have been before—
Dreadfully I fear’d the morrow. Vainly had I sought to borrow;
For (I own it to my sorrow) I was miserably poor,
And the heart is heavy laden when one’s miserably poor;